The leaves, once vibrant, now descend,
In shades of gold, a mournful blend.
The wind sighs low, a mournful tune,
Through branches bare beneath the moon.
On barren benches, echoes cling,
Of laughter lost, on sorrow's wing.
His footsteps tread, a lonely beat,
In cadence with the autumn's heat.
His heart, a canvas sere and worn,
Where summer's hues to shadows turn.
Aching branches claw the sky,
Reflecting tears no longer dry.
The moon ascends, a silver tear,
On skies where hope seems far from near.
He closes eyes, and lets it flow,
The autumn's grief, a gentle woe.
Autumn
© Copyright: Всеволод Дмитриевич Анисимов, 2023
Свидетельство о публикации №123123105551
Свидетельство о публикации №123123105551
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